


All Roads Lead To San Marco (And You)

by Experimental



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romantic Cliches, Travelogue, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: An off-season trip to Venice and the Dolomites, in which Emil meows, Sara gets lucky, Mila is better than gelato, and Michele is oblivious as ever.





	1. Calle Tron

Michele has no idea where he is.

Well, that's half true. He knows he's in Venice. The stench of the canals won't let him forget that. And in the sticky heat of summer in a swamp, they're probably at their peak of foulness. He could have been at a beach down south, somewhere the air is dry and the water something a person can actually swim in without fear of contracting half a dozen superbugs, but no. . . .

“You mean you've never been to Venice?” Emil had sounded shocked. Like he truly expected Michele to be familiar with every corner of his home country. “Well, then, we have to go!”

“There's absolutely nothing in Venezia that interests me,” Michele had grumbled back. “It's a tourist trap. Anyway, I thought you'd be spending your summer base jumping in the Dolomites or something.”

“I want to do that too! But you _have_ to see Venice, Mickey. See Venice and die—isn't that how the saying goes?”

“Perfect. Then I have about fifty or sixty years before I have to go. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll have sunk by then.”

His sarcasm only earned him a laugh. Michele kicked himself for ever giving Emil his number.

“You know it'll be fun. Sara's going—”

“You already invited Sara?” Visions of Emil alone with his sister flashed through his mind. Cliched images of gondola rides and romantic dinners in Piazza San Marco, watching fireworks burst over the lagoon from the Bridge of Sighs. . . .

“Actually, she invited me.” Which was even worse. How was Michele the last one to know about it? “Mila's coming down, too, and Sara thought the four of us could sort of double-date. What do you say? You don't really want to leave me alone with those two, do you?”

So here he is—to balance out the numbers, obviously, and let Sara and Mila have some girl-time—and he's lost. And sticky. And probably hangry. In a city with no cars and no sense whatsoever that Michele can see to its layout, with a useless phone he forgot to charge before he left his room.

“Not to worry.” Emil is as chipper and as much like a walking, talking guidebook as ever. (If Michele threw him in the canal right now, he'd probably bob up laughing and raving about how refreshing the water is.) “All roads lead to San Marco, right?”

“I think you mean, 'All roads lead to Rome.'”

“No, I've definitely heard it both ways. So as long as we're heading in the right direction, we're bound to get there eventually. And anyway, it's the _journey,_ in life, that's important to take time and enjoy.”

They pass a bistro tucked into the alley, whose sign overhead sports a laughing kitten. Michele could swear they've passed under that cat before. He would also swear that cat is laughing at _him._

A bell chimes the time somewhere in the distance, and Michele sighs, “It's no good. We were supposed to meet up with the girls for gelato half an hour ago.” And he could really go for a scoop of the good stuff right about now. Anything for a little relief from this humidity.

Something glimpsed through a shop window catches Emil's eye as they go by. “Let's stop in here!” he says, and disappears inside before Michele can protest that this is only going to make them later.

At least the place has air conditioning. It's one of the masquerade shops that are ubiquitous in Venice, the walls lined in papier mâché and molded leather masks of all styles and colors and manner of adornment, shelves populated by music boxes and porcelain dolls of characters from the Commedia dell'arte. 

“Mickey—Mickey, check it,” Emil says when Michele joins him, and places a mask over his face. “ _I am no longer human._ ”

No matter how deep and serious a voice Emil says that in, it can't change the fact that the cat mask was clearly made with teenage girls in mind. Despite its LEDs and glittery circuit-board tracery, it's still more Hello Kitty than _Anastasis,_ an effect which Emil's beard isn't helping one bit.

Michele can't help himself. He bursts out laughing. “You're such a dork!”

Which only makes Emil beam even brighter when he lowers the mask. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces to the rest of the shop (even though the only “gentlemen” there are the two of them), “a small miracle has just occurred: I have just made Michele Crispino, curmudgeon extraordinaire, laugh!”

A couple of middle-aged ladies checking out folding fans applaud.

“Well, that decides it. I have to buy it now.”

“You can't.”

Before Emil can protest, Michele gestures to the clerk in a way that has universal meaning. “Because I'm buying it,” he tells Emil.

“Aw, that's sweet of you, Mickey, but I can't let you—”

“I insist.” And he wishes Emil would just shut up and let him because Michele's face is starting to hurt from smiling so much. “You can buy me a gelato when we get back to the Piazza, if you still feel like making it up to me.”

He doesn't know it yet, but where gelato is concerned, he's going to be set for life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all of these chapters are going to be titled by the name of some road that really does exist. Calle Tron is where you'll find Le Chat Qui Rit bistro in Venice, which has a laughing kitten on its sign, and is a sure sign you're not far from la Piazza. The mask shop is fictional, but you can find plenty of them tucked in all throughout the city.
> 
> They say "All roads lead to San Marco" because throughout the city there are plaques pointing the way to the basilica—sometimes pointing in two different directions on the same sign! It's a magical place.


	2. Piazza San Marco

Inside a Murano glass shop near the Piazza is an enchanted reef: Abalone and sea urchins disguise themselves in bowls and baubles, medusa and man-of-war chandeliers reach down twisting transluscent tentacles. Thrown light sparkles in every color imaginable.

It gets trapped in Mila's eyes as she gazes up in wonder at a chandelier of delicate lilies, a clear and bottomless aqua-blue. The shimmer of her hair peeks between spongiform vases and lamps like the fin of some elusive exotic fish, unmatched by any of the scarlets and corals and carmines and crimsons that surround her.

There isn't anything Sara wants in those shops, at least nothing that's for sale, so before long they return to the sunny familiarity of the Piazza, with its crowds of tourists and domes of San Marco, and the ubiquitous cooing of the pigeons. Though not entirely empty-handed.

“Didn't you just feel like a mermaid in there?” Mila says as they swing their clasped hands between them like children.

“Like I was in an octopus's garden!” Sara laughs, heart skipping to know they had been thinking the same thing. “The eight-year-old girl in me was very happy.”

“Heh? You wanted to be a mermaid when you were little, too? I would have figured you as more of a pixie, the way you fly across the ice.”

“No way! Mermaids beat the tiny pants off pixies any day!”

On that, the squeeze of Mila's hand seems to say, she will find no argument.

Something catches Mila's eye, and she lets go of Sara's hand to dance a few paces ahead, clasping her hands behind her back as she turns and makes a funny face. “Don't laugh, but do you know what I wanna get while I'm here?”

“Another stracciatella gelato?”

“Mm, that too. . . .” Mila has developed something of an obsession with stracciatella gelato on this trip. Sara wonders if half of it is that she just likes saying it. “But nope! A picture with the famous San Marco pigeons.”

At least Sara doesn't laugh at her. She cringes, much to Mila's disappointment. “ _I topi volante?_ Those rats with wings? For the love of all things decent, _why_?”

“I _know,_ it's _so cliché—_ but it's the thing to do when you're in Venezia!” Mila takes Sara's hands in hers and pulls her closer to where other tourists, of all ages and nationalities, are letting the birds perch all over them and eat from their hands, despite all the signs urging them not to. “Come on~” she whines, while Sara protests and digs in her heels, “live a little, Sarochka~ Do it for me~”

Before they can get too close, however, something spooks the pigeons and they take off en masse, flapping up around those gathered in the square like a plague.

Recognizing the most immediate danger, the young women squeal and shield their heads, running back to the shelter of the colonnades that surround the Piazza and ducking down a side street. People they pass, who have no knowledge of what they've just escaped, look at them like they're madwomen.

And when they reach a place where they feel they're safe from the pigeons' wrath, they have to admit they do sound a bit like lunatics, as they hold on to each other laughing and fighting to catch their breath. “Okay, I changed my mind,” Mila says between huffs. “That's enough pigeons for one trip!”

In that case, Sara hates to break it to her, but, “Looks like they sent you off with a souvenir anyway.”

Mila follows Sara's gaze to her own shoulder, only to see her shirt has taken a few direct hits in the pigeon storm. “That's alright,” she says while Sara giggles into her hand. “Don't they say that if a pigeon poops on you in San Marco's Square, you'll be lucky in love . . . or something like that?”

“I think they only say that so you won't feel so bad about being pooped on. Besides," Sara adds as she pulls Mila closer, "you don't need any help in that department.”

A brief kiss is all she gets, however, as Mila breaks away stifling a laugh of her own, and holding out a lock of Sara's hair. “I'm not the only one who got lucky.”

 _Damn flying rats!_ It's all Sara can do not to jump out of her skin, thinking about what germs might be crawling around on her beautiful hair at that very moment. There's no way in hell she's walking around with droppings on her head any longer than she absolutely has to. “I need a shower. Right now."

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing?” Mila says as they make haste back towards their hotel, which thankfully isn't far away.

Sara will have to send her brother a text that he and Emil are on their own for gelato after all. She doesn't think she'll miss it much herself. Mila's lips are sweeter to her than even stracciatella. 

 


	3. Fondamente della Giudecca

They don the finest they brought with them before afternoon turns to evening, then board a _vaporetto_ for the quiet little island of Burano.

The breeze coming off the water cools their skin, and puts an extra curl in Mila's hair that she didn't ask for but gladly accepts. She's embracing serendipity on this trip, and Emil's surprise reservations for the evening seem ripe for happy accidents.

The campanile of Chiesa di San Martino, leaning at its distressing angle over the brightly painted façades, is the perfect backdrop for photos that will later be posted on social media. Forced perspectives of each of them trying to prop up the bell tower—or else push it over—or group shots of them all leaning back into one another, trying to match the angle of the tower's tilt without falling over themselves.

They arrange themselves by height, with Sara and her selfie stick anchoring the front, Emil with arms spread out exuberantly in the back. Perhaps Mila leans back against Michele just a little too hard, because he loses his balance just enough that Emil is forced to catch him. She swears up and down that she didn't do it intentionally, but seeing the faint color on Mickey's cheeks captured by Sara's phone as Emil grabs on to his shoulders, and the sweetness of Emil's smile as he takes his eyes away from the camera for one second. . . .

Unintentional or not, Mila's not sorry. Not one bit.

After perusing the island's famous lace shops (thank goodness Emil and Michele have an eye for pretty things and aren't bored to tears), they stop for dinner at a quaint seafood restaurant situated just beside the canal, named for a black cat.

That seems to recall a private joke between the guys, and eventually the girls manage to wheedle a confession out of Michele that he feels like he's being followed by cats all over this trip. “Maybe it's the universe's way of trying to tell you something, miao,” Emil says. And he doesn't stop there: “Hey, Mickey, want to split an order of mussels with miao?” “Another bottle of Prosecco, miao-stro!”

Soon it catches on with the girls as well. And by the time Michele finally joins in—acting like he doesn't know _what's_ so damn funny, miao—the rest are fighting fits of giggles, glad they're dining on the patio so they won't get thrown out for making too much noise.

Afterwards they take in the island at a leisurely stroll, exchanging pleasantries or a few kicks of the football with locals. And as daylight fades a band begins to play old pop songs outside a cafe. Since they still have an hour before their boat arrives to take them back to Venice, they stay long enough to enjoy a round of cocktails.

While they pass the time, Michele asks Sara if she'll dance a number with him. And, not one to be left out, Mila reaches for Emil's hand, suggesting, “Shall we show them how it's done?”

It's a slow, sweet number, perfect for holding your partner close. And as they sway, Sara says to Michele, “Thanks for agreeing to come with us on this trip. I know you weren't crazy about Venezia, but it wouldn't have been half as fun without you.”

“Well, I couldn't very well leave you alone with Emil,” Michele mumbles, stubbornly refusing to admit what's clear enough for the other three to see: that he's actually enjoying himself quite a bit.

Sara scoffs at that old, tired excuse. “We wouldn't exactly be _alone—_ ”

“You know what I mean.”

She glances over Michele's shoulder at Mila, and Mila can read from the roll of Sara's eyes: _Can you believe this brother of mine? How much more clueless can a person get?_

 _Maybe it's time we butt in,_ Mila's look back says. And as the band starts up “Quando, Quando, Quando” she maneuvers herself and Emil closer to the siblings. Aloud, she says to her partner, “Maybe it's time you danced with the person you actually want to.”

 _Too much too soon!_ Mila knows that the second Emil starts in her hold as if a gun just went off, and he stammers, “Oh! Yeah! Uh . . . Sara, do you want to . . . Er, that is, you don't mind, do you, Mickey?”

“Of course he doesn't,” Sara answers for her brother as she switches places with Mila (ignoring Michele's “As long as he keeps his hands north of the equator”). “And I'd love to, Emil.”

 _Oh, well_ , Mila thinks. _It was worth a shot._ She'll get other chances to dance with Sara before they leave Venice. Besides, this is her chance to settle a wager she's made with herself, to see if Mickey is more the type to lead or to follow.

“You don't have anything to worry about from him, you know,” she assures him as they dance, seeing as Michele almost never takes his eyes off the other couple. “He's a perfect gentleman.”

“I know,” Michele sighs. “He's so damned perfect it should be a crime.”

 _Does that mean what I think it means?_ Nah, Mila tells herself, Mickey is probably oblivious even to how he sounds.

But it doesn't escape her notice how often Emil looks back Michele's way, when he isn't talking to Sara or laughing at a joke. If Mila made a drinking game out of it, by the end of the night the other three would have to carry her back to her room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fondamente della Giudecca is a colorful, almost Caribbean-looking street that runs down one of the main canals through Burano, and is where you'll find the historic seafood joint Trattoria al Gatto Nero. It takes about 30-45 minutes by boat to get from Venice to Burano, which is a working fishing island famous for its handmade lace (like Murano is famous for glass). And, yes, it does have its own [rather impressively] leaning tower.


	4. Bacino di San Marco

Michele finally gets his beach when they spend an afternoon at Punta Sabbioni. The fresh Mediterranean water, the golden expanse of sun-warmed sand, marred only by a sea jelly or two. No matter how old he gets, Michele will never tire of burying his toes in the little grains. Even the pizza tastes divine by the sea, so that he actually forgets to mention, for once in his life, that Neapolitan-style is better.

They play a few rounds of volleyball, and Emil and Mila wipe the floor with Michele and Sara. They do have an unfair advantage, after all, what with their height and their powerful jumps.

But Michele can't hold it against them. Not with Sara at his back, encouraging him at every play and spiking colorful insults over the net (all in good fun, of course) that their opponents are hopeless to return. He hasn't felt like they're riding the same mental wavelength like this in a while, it warms him to his core. With each high-ten Sara gives him, he feels more like he's winning, no matter how many points “Team Miliemili” beats them by in the end.

Besides, there are other ways for Michele to even the score.

* * *

He throws down his third card in a row, a jack to beat Mila's king. And when Emil fails to produce another face card, Michele pumps a triumphant fist.

“Aw, man~” Mila whines while he gathers up the playing cards and adds them to his already sizable hand. “That was my last face.”

They go round the table again, and Emil drops his last card onto the pile and declares, “And I'm out! I guess that means I won, right?”

“Ha! That means you lose first, loser!” Michele points at him, while Sara explains a bit more patiently, “Sorry, Emil. In Egyptian Ratscrew, the person who gets all the cards wins.”

“Oh. Well, I'm still out.” Content to spectate, though, Emil leans back to work on his bottle of Peroni.

“Me too,” Mila grouses a moment later, as she throws her own last card onto the pile. “I was at least hoping for a double or a sandwich to stage my comeback, but alas.”

“And then,” Sara says, a dangerous look in her eyes, “there were two. Looks like it all comes down to this.”

“The only thing going down is you, little sister,” Michele vows with a big, maniacal grin on his face as he straightens up in his seat. “In a fiery crash.”

“ _Au contraire._ Age before beauty, big brother,” Sara promises right back, her slapping hand getting twitchy.

“I'm on Team Sara!” Mila shoots a hand straight up in the air.

“There's no teams in Egyptian Ratscrew!” Michele says.

“For moral support, of course,” says Mila, to which Sara snarks, “No one wants to join your team anyway, Mickey.”

“I'll be on your team, Mickey,” Emil says. Trying to be helpful, he gives Michele a comradely pat on the back.

It's just enough to distract him from the game, and when Sara goes for the fake-out slap, Michele falls for it.

“ _You!_ ” he rages at Emil, shaking him by his shirt and spilling beer over both of them. “I didn't ask for your help, saboteur!”

But Emil just grins as brightly as ever. “Wow! I am loving this fierce competitive side of yours! Where do you leave this guy when you skate?”

“ _Huh?!_ You saying I don't pose enough of a challenge for you? This from the guy who just wants to be everyone's pal—”

A burst of magenta light and a boom that shakes the building beneath them and the two freeze in place. Above the lagoon, on the other side of San Marco from their hotel's rooftop terrace, the fireworks begin, and the card game is quickly forgotten.

“Ahh, so pretty~!” Mila says as she leaps up from her seat and leans on the railing of the balcony. Even though they're coming from the basin on the other side of the Piazza, it feels like the fireworks are bursting right over their heads.

And Michele is so entranced by the display, he doesn't see the hug coming until Emil's arms are fully around him and Emil is saying in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear over the booms: “ _Buona Festa del Redentore_ , Mickey.”

His body is still warm from the sun bouncing off the sand, and on Emil's T-shirt Michele swears he can smell the sea, and now that winning is the furthest thing from his mind it hits Michele full-force what a shitty friend he was being just moments ago. He ought to apologize. He ought to hug Emil back. But all he settles on is “Uh . . . oh. Yeah, same to you.”

Just when he starts to feel like maybe he doesn't want the hug to end, it's gone, and it's Sara Emil has his arms around. “ _Buona Festa del Redentore_ , Sara!”

“ _Buona festa_ , Emil!”

“You giving out hugs, Emil?” says Mila. “I want one!” And this time Emil is the one taken by surprise, when she seizes him around the waist and lifts him up off his feet.

There are hugs and well-wishes all around, and Michele can't complain that Sara's lasts the longest. Though it's the scent of Emil's beer that keeps coming back to him, soaking into the leg of his jeans.

“Okay, Sara might have won at cards,” Mila says, “but Emil wins at hugs.”

“Hands down,” says Sara.

The former point, Michele isn't ready to concede. But on the latter, they'll hear no argument from him.

And it seems Emil isn't done yet. He exchanges _buona festa'_ s with the hotel's other lodgers who have also come to see the fireworks, including a young family they think might be from Germany, and a quartet of Italian grandpas.

“You kids heading down to the Lido after this?” one of the older gentlemen asks them in Italian. And at their blank faces: “That's where the city's young folk will go after the fireworks. Party on the beach till dawn and watch the sunrise together. It's a four-hundred-year-old tradition.”

“You don't want to come all this way just to miss it,” says one of his buddies. “You're only young once.”

“Well, we were just at the beach earlier today. . . .” Sara says, looking at the rest of their group in turn. She hates to miss a party, and it's clear by the sparkle in her eyes how badly she wants to go, but it is quite a trek for them all to make so late at night.

She looks to Emil, because if anyone has the club-bug worse than her, it would be he.

But one glance over at Michele is all Emil needs to decide: “You ladies go on without us.”

“You sure?” says Mila. She doesn't need to say out loud what they're all thinking, that it isn't like Emil to turn this opportunity down.

“Yeah, it's been a long day and I'm feeling kind of bushed. I think I'd rather stay and watch the sunrise from here, with Mickey. Besides, I've got to avenge myself at Egyptian Ratscrew, now that I know the objective.”

He doesn't fool Michele for a second.

But Michele could hug him, if he wasn't too embarrassed to do it, in front of strangers besides. He's more grateful to Emil than he knows how to say, because he can read from Emil's face and his restless energy just how awake he still is and how much he'd like to be with the action. It's all Michele can do not to tell Emil to forget about him and go.

But Sara's always ragging on him about his failure to appreciate a well-meant gesture. Maybe all those hugs Emil gave away have left Michele feeling a little selfish, because he really doesn't want to let this one go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Festa del Redentore, or Feast of the Redeemer, is a holiday celebrated the third Sunday in July in Venice to commemorate the end of a devastating plague in 1577, and the subsequent dedication of the Redentore Church. There are fireworks the night before (this year they fall on 15 July) above the bacino, and gondola races the day of, as well as lots of feasting and partying throughout. After the fireworks, people party all night on the Lido, a barrier island just southeast of Venice famous for its beach, and watch the sunrise; or if they have boats on the basin, they might watch from there. It's a celebration of being alive.
> 
> Buona festa, everyone! and tanti auguri to Emil!


	5. Piazzale Bucintoro

It's just a sunrise. There's one more or less like it every day.

But that first little sliver peeks up over the sea, radiant like an orange topaz, and the crowds whoop and holler like a savior has appeared to end their long dark night, and it doesn't feel like any old sunrise to Sara.

It feels like the first sunrise—like she's part of one unbroken moment that's been relived every morning since the dawn of mankind, never mind since the end of a plague. They danced with the wolves and lionesses nipping at their heels all night, each stranger next to them a brother- or sister-in-arms, and only with the first rays of the sun do they know for certain they've made it safely through to another day.

She looks over at Mila, sitting on the sand beside her. Just a moment ago Sara's head was on her shoulder, Mila's cheek against her crown, both fighting to stay awake just a _little longer_ to see what they'd come all this way for. They didn't bring sunglasses with them—it was dark when they left for the Lido—and the red wavelengths make their eyes shine like the eyes of wild things. Their hands find each other on the sand. They don't need to speak out loud. _We made it,_ their hands and their eyes say to one another. _We got here together._

All over the beach, couples are kissing and holding each other tight. The couple nearest them were strangers to each other when the night began. Sara only knows that because she and Mila did shots with them some hours before. Already their names are fading from her memory. But as they snog with primal abandon, it doesn't look like the two young women's company will be missed.

Sara wants to kiss Mila like that more than anything in the world. But she says instead, “Should we head back before everyone starts crowding the boats?”

It doesn't really matter. The boats are crowded one way or another. But they drag themselves back to their hotel, and to the self-service breakfast, where they run into Michele and Emil.

Between Emil, clinging to his coffee as if it were life itself and looking like Hell slightly defrosted, and the disheveled girls with sand still dusting their ankles, it would be a close contest to judge who looks more hungover. Only Michele seems well-rested, but this comes as no surprise. He's always been the early bird to Sara's night owl.

“Mickey and I made some new friends,” Emil yawns when Sara and Mila are unusually elliptical in their recounting of last night's goings-on. “You remember those older gentlemen we watched the fireworks with last night? They were kind enough to teach us canasta after you two left. I always wanted to learn canasta.”

This is about the time Sara would have expected Michele to interject with some wise-ass comment about how he already knew how to play—both of them have been playing with their grandmother and her friends since they were old enough to count—but he doesn't. Instead, he smiles, and affirms “It was wild. I smoked my first cigar.”

“Well, _half_ a cigar,” Emil corrects him. “I had to finish it for him.”

“Wow. My brother, living dangerously.” For a second, Sara wonders if he's caught some sort of bug on this trip. There must be something wrong with Michele. He hasn't even grilled her about the strange men she danced the night away with yet.

He just shrugs. “I'm on vacation.”

“We must have played till—what, one-thirty? Two in the morning?”

“Then our friends had to retire, so we set our alarms for just before sunrise and caught a little shut-eye in the meantime. We had to get some rest in if we wanted to have enough energy for the regatta later."

“ _Regatta?_ ” both Sara and Mila say at the same time. _There's_ _more_ _? You_ _mean we can't just sleep the rest of the day away?_

“Gondola-racing on the Canale della Giudecca,” Michele says, and holy cow he actually sounds excited about it. It's a Festa del Redentore miracle! “The old-timers were telling us about how heated it gets, everyone rooting for their favorite team.”

“You guys are coming with us,” says Emil, “I hope.”

“Maybe after a little nap first,” says Sara, and Mila yawns, “We've got time for that, right?”

As soon as Sara sees the bed, what little energy she had in reserve to get her there evaporates, and she collapses face-first on the mattress, not even bothering to turn down the sheets or undress. When the bed bounces under her, she knows Mila has pretty much done the same thing on her side.

After what feels like a few minutes, Sara musters up enough energy to try and kick off her shoes; but they just don't want to cooperate and she gives up, and inches her way up to Mila instead.

She gets as far as Mila's side before she decides it's good enough, and throws an arm around Mila's middle, resting her cheek against her hip. “I've been waiting for the perfect moment to kiss you all morning,” she grumbles while the rise and fall of Mila's breathing and the echoes of last night's music in her bones do their best to lull her to sleep, “but I just don't have the energy anymore. Imagine that, being too tired for kissing.”

She feels more than hears Mila's little chuckle. “Don't worry, there'll be plenty of kisses waiting for you when you wake up.”

A minute or so passes in silence, and Sara wonders how it's even possible she could be too tired to fall asleep. But apparently she isn't the only one.

“Michele sure seemed happy this morning,” Mila says while they hover between consciousness and un-. “Content, even. You don't suppose . . .”

“What, that he and Emil finally admitted they were madly into each other and hooked up?” It seems like too much to ask. Only one miracle per holiday. Besides, she knows her brother. In this instance, a cigar is only a cigar.

“You're right,” Mila sighs. “This is Mickey we're talking about.”

“Emil's no better, though. Does he expect Mickey to just read his mind or something?”

“Boys. . . . Still. He did look happy.”

“He did, didn't he?” And on that hopeful note, Sara lets sweet slumber spirit her away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're continuing the Festa del Redentore in this chapter. The regatta is held on the Giudecca Canal on Sunday afternoon of the festival, and features brightly-painted gondole and pupparini, and locals get very enthusiastic cheering on their favorite teams. There's a pontoon bridge set up across the canal the day before, so people can basically walk across the water to the church on Giudecca island, or to pick out their spots to watch the races.
> 
> Piazzale Bucintoro is a spot on the island of Lido di Venezia where you'll find a public beach, restaurants and clubs, and a neat architectural installation known as Blue Moon that looks like something from an old sci-fi book cover.


	6. SR11

“Want me to I wake him?”

“Nah, just let him sleep. He's not bothering me.”

“Not to mention, he hasn't complained about a single thing for half an hour.”

Emil stifles a laugh so as not to disturb Michele.

Who is currently using Emil's shoulder as a pillow, his breathing deep and peaceful. They're all a bit tired from staying up late two nights in a row, and all the walking and the shouting at the regatta they did yesterday, so no one can blame Michele for being dead to the world.

As Emil puts his tablet to sleep, Sara pulls her legs up under her on the seat across from him. Past the window zooms the northern Italian countryside, the Veneto plain starting to give way to rolling foothills.

“You think he has any idea?” Emil says in a low voice.

“Not a clue,” says Sara. “He's always been dense when it comes to these things. You have to tell it to him plain or he'll never understand just what you're trying to say.”

“I suppose that's only fair.” Emil grins, glancing at Michele out of the corner of his eye. “He reminds me of a little kitten that's just learned it can growl and so it growls at everything. It doesn't necessarily know _why_ it's growling, it's just a habit, so nine times out of ten you can't take it at face value. But it is being sincere about its feelings, in its own way. The trick is learning to interpret it.”

“Uh, I guess so. . . .” It seems that Sara has never really viewed her brother from that angle before.

Either that, or Emil isn't getting what he means across all that well. Which means. . . .

 _I'll have to say the words after all._ He knows it isn't realistic to hope that Michele will just catch on to all his hints. Follow the proverbial trail of breadcrumbs to their logical conclusion. But how to tell Michele the truth and not scare him off at the same time?

The uncertainty of the outcome is something Emil's not looking forward to. Yet this trip, and his opportunities, are already half gone.

“Awww,” Mila whispers as she joins them, bringing fresh coffee and tea. Unloading Sara's and Emil's, she takes out her phone and snaps a picture. Realizing belatedly that it isn't turned to silent. The artificial shutter noise seems unusually loud in the train car. Sara and Emil both shush it out of habit.

“Sorry!” Mila drops down next to her girlfriend. “He's too cute like this, I couldn't help myself.”

“He's going to murder your phone when he wakes up and sees that,” Sara warns her.

“Maybe. Or _maybe_ he'll be glad one day that I took it. Hm?” With that, Mila sends a meaningful wink in Emil's direction.

 _One day, huh?_ As if Emil needs the added pressure. He keeps getting that song from that magical night of regret re-stuck in his head, and it doesn't help that the clack of the wheels on the tracks provide the perfect bossa nova beat for the words going round and round his brain: _Tell me when will you be mine/ Tell me quando, quando, quando. . . ._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SR11 is a rail line that connects Venice and Milan and runs through other cities across northern Italy along the way, like Vicenza, Padua, Verona. . . .
> 
> "Quando, Quando, Quando" is by Tony Renis, and somehow it's evolved into my EmiMike theme song in the writing of this. ~_~; (It doesn't help that Tony Renis kinda had Mickey's look in 1962.) So much pining! In case it's not clear, the "magical night of regret" refers to Chapter 3.


	7. Via Cappello

“I guess I was expecting something more . . . private,” Mila says as they gaze up at the stone balcony. “You know, in a garden or something, all covered with climbing roses.”

There are vines draping over the adjacent wall, thick and green, but that's about all the "garden" there is. Tourists jostle for selfie space, lucky couples waiting their turns to stand out on the famous balcony and play Romeo and Juliet themselves.

“It doesn't seem all that romantic, does it?” Sara says, referring to the crowds. “Still, it is a beautiful city.”

“Mm, I'd say it's fair,” says Mila.

The two turn to each other, breaking into silly smiles at the bad joke that they both love.

As they continue on their stroll, Sara checks up on her brother's whereabouts, the app showing he's stopped at a cafe a few blocks away. Emil has sent a photo of a pink-cheeked Michele being recognized by some young female fans. He's allowing them to take selfies with him, and Mila suspects Emil may have had some positive influence there.

Or maybe it's just that without Sara nearby, Michele's able to relax and think about himself and his own wants more. Neither of which would be a bad thing.

“You going to write a letter?” Mila asks.

“Of course. Even if it is terribly cliché. You?”

“Um, hello, winning at romantic cliché bingo is half the reason I'm here. Ooh! You should write one for Mickey! He could use all the help he can get.”

“Dear Juliet,” Sara grumbles in her best impersonation of Michele, “my rival for my sister's affections keeps asking me out for drinks, and I want him to think I'm a really cool guy but every time I see his fuzzy Czech face I have to crush his spirit like the adorable little cockroach it is. He's too perfect for words—it isn't fair! A plague on him and his skinny capris!”

Mila giggles, but then after a moment's consideration: “No, if Mickey is anyone it's Tybalt, don't you think?”

“ _Good king of cats!_ ” the two laugh at the same time.

The weather in northern Italy can be a bit bipolar this time of year, rain one minute, bright sunshine the next. It starts to shower, so the two of them duck into a church. A wedding party is taking photographs in one of the chapels, and though the setting for one of the most infamous doomed love affairs of all time doesn't seem to Mila like the most auspicious place to start a marriage, they do say rain on your wedding day is good luck, so maybe the two will cancel each other out.

As for herself, she can't help feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Sara is wearing the lace shrug she bought in Burano, swan-white against her bronze arms, and Mila knows it's cliché but she looks like an angel, standing in a beam of sunlight and staring up at the intricately decorated rib vaulting above them.

All due respect to Victor's taste in music, but there is no eros and no agape as far as Mila is concerned. There is only one kind of love, and it is pure, and it is profane, it is ephemeral and eternal, and it sees no paradox in being both at the same time. It leaves you feeling like you're floating on air, and it kicks your ass down every time. No matter how careful or prepared you think you are. A lot like skating, actually.

_Dear Juliet. I used to have a Romeo. Until I found out he was fooling around with a more “mature” woman behind my back. So I beat him up in front of his teammates. They'd all tell you he had it coming._

_But his cheating turned out to be the best thing that could happen. Because of that, I found my Rosaline, and I wouldn't trade her for all the Romeos in the world. All I ask is that we have pride enough in each other that jealousy never comes between us. I know what we have now may not last forever. But let it evolve, if it can't stay the same, and never die._

_Your sister in arms, Mila Babicheva._

_And p.s., give Mickey a knock upside the head for me? That boy could use a little help from above._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Via Cappello in fair Verona you can visit what is supposed to be Juliet Capulet's house (Casa di Giulietta in Italian), and inside the courtyard is the famous balcony that featured in Shakespeare's play _Romeo and Juliet_. Or, you know, at least that's the claim. People really do write letters to Juliet, which are collected by the Club di Giulietta, as fictionalized in the book and film (called what else?) _Letters to Juliet_.
> 
> The church I had in mind is the Sant'Anastasia basilica, which is about a seven-minutes' walk from Juliet's house and has a most ornate interior.


	8. Strada delle 52 Gallerie

_Ex Arduis Perpetuum Nomen_ the inscription above the tunnel reads: _Out of difficulty, lasting fame._

Fifty-two tunnels make up the hundred-year-old trail, cut by young men probably no older than themselves who were desperate to save what was most precious to them, even at the risk of their own lives.

“We won't get through all fifty-two,” Emil says, looking at his map while Michele gazes up at the tunnel entrance. “Erosion's made some parts of the trail a bit treacherous, but there's still a good amount that's beginner-friendly.”

“Who said I was a beginner?” Michele snorts over his shoulder.

Emil seems to weigh offending one twin and betraying the other before answering, “Sara might have mentioned something about heights—”

“I am _not_ afraid of heights.” Though Michele does grudgingly concede, “Just of falling from them. There's nothing unsual about that. It's just good judgment.” Unlike _someone_ he could mention, his survival instincts are intact.

“You're right.” An apologetic chuckle. “I should have said _casual hiker-_ friendly. And I promise, I won't do anything risky while I'm with you. Or let you come to any harm.” After a moment's thought, however: “Unless I have to do something risky in order to _stop_ you from coming to harm. . . .”

“Not reassuring.” And what is this, the Three Laws of Nekolotics?

They climb and thread through the mountainside tunnels until the path becomes too narrow and broken for Michele's comfort. Somewhere along the way, they leave Mila and Sara behind, but the girls have their own water and gear with them and somehow Michele doesn't think Sara will mind being separated. It's not like he's out here by himself.

On the way back, he and Emil stop to refuel and take in the view from a rocky ledge. Steep cliffs rise around them, obscured by clouds, some of which are actually below their eye level. The moisture rising up from the valley cools the sweat they've worked up. It's eerily quiet, no wind, not even birds to be heard, and Michele has a feeling like he's perched on the edge of the world with Emil. But he's not afraid of falling off.

“Do you know, Mickey,” Emil says in a suddenly wistful voice, “if we'd been born a hundred years earlier, we might have faced each other on this very mountainside, as enemies.”

“That's right. The Czechs were part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, weren't they?”

“Not willingly, but yes. But even if we had ended up on opposing sides, I wouldn't have been able to fire on you.”

Michele's first thought on hearing that is, _Well, that's a nice thing to say._ Then: _Why would he say that? How am I supposed to answer? Am I supposed to say, "Right back at you"?_ Somehow that doesn't seem to be enough.

“You wouldn't fire at anybody, Emil. You're too nice. And too Czech.”

Emil smiles, but he shakes his head. That isn't what he meant. “Even if I were facing you down a rifle sight, even if I was ordered to do it, I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger. I like to think somehow I would know it was you. I mean . . .” He struggles to find the words to explain it better, but can't, and settles for: “Well, I would just know.”

Now Michele _really_ doesn't know what to say in response. He feels his cheeks heat, and tells himself it's the altitude finally catching up with him. “Thanks for not killing me, I guess.”

“Don't mention it.”

“You know I can't promise I'd spare you, right? I mean, it wouldn't be anything personal. . . .”

“Eh.” Emil shrugs, as if to say, _A man's gotta do what he's gotta do_. _No hard feelings._

But that isn't where Michele wants to leave things either. No matter how casually he said it, Emil's words seem to him as deep as the valley below them—and as hard to penetrate as the mist that shrouds it. If Emil can be serious, surely Michele can meet him halfway?

“ _N_ _ezasloužím si tě_ _,_ ” he says, “ _kamar_ _á_ _d._ ”

And Emil brightens. “You learned Czech!”

“Just a little. Beginner stuff mostly. I hope I didn't butcher it.”

But just in case, to better get his feelings across where words cannot, Michele extends his right hand between them, expecting Emil to take it in his own in a brotherly handshake.

Instead, Emil interlaces Michele's fingers with those of his left, and brings both their hands to his heart. “ _N_ _é_ _io te, compagno._ ”

Yes, must be the altitude. Otherwise, why would Michele suddenly feel so lightheaded and short of breath sitting down?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Strada delle 52 Gallerie, or Road of 52 Tunnels, is a military mule road carved into the sides of the mountains near Mt. Pasubio by Italian forces, who were desperate to move supplies through the treacherous terrain and cut off the Austrian army before they could take Venice during World War I (1917). Today it's a trail that you can walk and admire the ingenuity and courage and sheer hard work that went into it.
> 
> " _Nezasloužím si tě, kamarád_ " = "I don't deserve you, friend/comrade" in Czech. This isn't one of my languages, so please correct me if I'm butchering yours. Unless a little butchery works for the story. . . .
> 
> " _Né io te_ " = "Neither do I[/Nor I you]" in Italian. Same. The meaning of " _compagno_ " can range from "comrade" to "buddy" to "partner" to "husband," so Emil might have just given Michele a lot to think about thar.


	9. Località Chiamulera

The roads around Cortina d'Ampezzo snake through rolling peridot-green pastures, dotted with cows and wildflowers and Tyrolean chalets. It's perfect weather for a bike ride and picnic lunch: a spread of fresh summer melons and cured meats and local cheeses shared between them, a blanket of aqua-blue suspended above.

The tiramisu Mila chose for dessert looks a little worse for wear, having slid around in its plastic clamshell pretty thoroughly on the ride here, but she's looking forward to it all the same. She's tried to have one everywhere they've stopped—for the purposes of comparison, of course, all very scientific—and no one can deny a “pick me up” is just what they'll need before they start the ride back toward town.

Emil is unusually quiet while they eat. But who can blame him, with the craggy ridge of Pomagagnon looming over them, beckoning? He stares at it like a man hopelessly in love with someone who doesn't know he exists. So he doesn't seem to notice that his T-shirt has ridden up a little bit, or that Michele is trying hard not to let his eyes fall to the strip of exposed abs that rise and fall with Emil's breath each time he looks over.

Mila tries just as hard not to grin too widely because she doesn't want anyone asking what's so funny.

She says to Emil, “You really want to climb it, don't you?”

“You have no idea how badly.”

He lets out a groan of frustrated desire, like it's killing him just thinking about what he's missing out on, and sits up. “But I promised my coach I wouldn't do anything with too high a level of difficulty on this trip. Well, I didn't promise _per se_ , but he was so relieved when I said I'd be going with other skaters, it feels like I would be going back on my word.”

“Why would us being skaters matter?” Sara asks.

“He figured none of us would do anything to risk serious injury,” Emil says like he's surprised the thought didn't occur to the other three, “if we had our closest competition right beside us.”

He says so as easily as if he were reporting the weather forecast for tomorrow, but nothing chills the air around their picnic like the reminder that they're rivals as well as friends. Mila can't help tallying their respective medals in her head, wondering if Sara is doing the same. Wondering if Sara ever envies her success, or if she's as happy for Mila as Mila is for her each time she scores a victory.

Mila wouldn't necessarily consider herself superstitious, but she hates talking about these things, and wants to banish the twin specters of jealousy and possible injury as quickly as possible.

Yet the boys, it seems, don't have her particular problem.

“I'd almost forgotten, but you're right,” Michele says, sizing Emil up over his prosciutto and melon. “The next time we meet will be as foes. I'd be extra careful on the ride back to town if I were you, Nekola. It would be unfortunate if you were to have an accident out here in the sticks.”

He's obviously teasing, and Emil laughs. But Mickey has spent so long playing the tough guy, he's very good at doing it with a straight face, and after a moment Emil has to check with Sara, just to make sure “He is joking, right?”

“It was a joke,” she confirms. “He wouldn't dare risk losing the deposit on the rental bike.”

“Of course it was a joke," Michele says, breaking into an apologetic smile at Emil's concern. "Where's the fun in beating you if I have to cheat to do it? Anyway, you're a more than worthy opponent, Emil, and I'd be honored to lose to you.”

“You really think so?” Somehow Emil manages to find a compliment even in a reminder that he always seems to finish behind Michele. “In that case, I'll be honored to defeat you.”

The fire of competition lights up Mickey's eyes and he leans forward to toss back: “Yeah, if that ever happens—”

But he leans too far, and Emil loops an arm around his neck, and pulls them both off balance and down onto the grass before Michele has the chance to resist. “Better brush up on your Czech, Crispino, 'cause this year you'll be standing for _my_ national anthem!”

“We'll just see about that!” And Emil yelps as Michele digs a knuckle into his ticklish ribs, while Sara and Mila hurry to move soda bottles out of the way of flailing feet. “But at least we can agree the two Yuris are going down.”

“Oh, without a doubt.”

Of course, Mila isn't going to burst their bubble and say that there's very little chance of that happening. Not when Michele and Emil are so fired up for skating together. Even if as rivals. It would be refreshing to see Mickey skate for someone other than his sister this year. And as for Emil, he has the power and fearlessness to be a top contender, if he can just find a way to sustain his energy through to the very end of his programs.

She knows Sara's thinking along similar lines, too, when their eyes meet and they share a knowing smile. _Someone put me out of my misery already,_ Mila sends along with the arch of her brow, and a sidelong glance at the boys _. What is it going to take for these two to get it together?_

 _I might know a way we can hurry things along,_ Sara's sly look assures her, _if you'll lend me a hand._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the Dolomites now, specifically in and around the city of Cortina d'Ampezzo, home of the 1956 Winter Olympics and still a destination for winter sports and summer hiking. It's surrounded by little hamlets ( _frazioni_ or localities), of which Chiamulera is one that lies near the base of Pomagagnon, one of the many stunningly beautiful and dramatic mountains around the valley.


	10. Via Lattea

It's a beautiful night—as clear as anyone can hope for a summer night in the mountains to be, with the Milky Way bright overhead and no moon to wash it out. The lights of Cortina sparkle like rhinestones below the hotel patio, an imperfect reflection of what's above.

It's nippy, too, not like the warm, sticky nights in Venice. And after ten minutes of waiting, give or take a few, sipping their _aperitivi_ down to the rocks and watching the tea lights melt to pools, it's looking less likely that Mila and Sara will be joining them.

Sure enough, a text to Michele's phone confirms: “Sara says to go ahead and eat and not to wait for them. She's tired and Mila has a headache—yeah, right—and they're just going to order dinner up to their room.”

“That's too bad,” Emil says. “But on the bright side, at least now I don't have to share your company.”

He doesn't expect that to get the snort it does. “This is so typical. . . . We've been set up!”

“Um, I think you mean stood up.”

“No, I definitely mean _set_ up. The girls never intended to join us. They wanted to get us out here, all dressed up, dining under the stars, just you and me, so we'd have to talk. Before we run out of time.”

“That's silly,” Emil says, but inside he's thinking, _Oh shit. This is it. Make or break_. “We've got plenty of time for talking, Mickey. Grand Prix will be here again before we know it, and then Europeans, and Worlds—Pyeongchang, if we're both lucky—”

“Emil, is there something you've been wanting to say to me?”

And suddenly it's Burano all over again. Mickey is _right there_ in the chair next to him, his hand resting on the tablecloth close enough to reach out and take. He's wearing the same suit, and Emil can bet that if he pressed his face to it he would smell the lagoon beneath Michele's cologne. He can hear music playing inside the hotel dining room, a slow bossa nova beat, and he'll be damned if it isn't the same song, begging him _When, when, when?_ It's a redo. A second chance.

And all he can say is, “I swear, Mickey, I didn't know they were going to do this.”

“So. That's how it's going to be, is it? You can throw yourself off a mountaintop, no problem, but telling me you like me—that's just too scary for you.”

Michele cocks his head and dons the most charming smile as he says it, the candlelight making his eyes seem translucent like amethysts, and he probably has no idea how irresistible he looks. Or how intimidating. Somehow Emil feels like this should be a dream. Any moment he's going to wake up and go back to his stalemate. Back to being just a friend. A colleague.

But until then, he faces Michele down, and tells him in no uncertain terms, “At least when I jump off a mountain I know I've got a parachute. How long have you known?”

“I had some idea when you said you would have recognized me even if we'd been born in another time. Also, it was kind of telling the way you took my hand. . . .”

 _That recently? Oh boy. . . ._ “You didn't think that was just me being my usual friendly self?” And how on Earth can it have taken Michele nearly this _whole trip_ to see what must have been patently obvious from the start? Emil would be the first to admit he's a terrible liar.

“Well, that did cross my mind as a possibility. I wasn't sure you'd go for moody Italian men.”

“I don't know about _men_ ,” Emil says, twisting a lock of hair even though he knows it's a nervous habit, “but there is this _one_ I've taken a fancy to. Mood and all.”

 _A fancy to. . . ._ He could kick himself. He's gone from cyberpunk to steampunk. And he expects Michele to take him seriously?

“Okay. You're right. I was scared. I treasure our friendship, and these past couple weeks have meant the world to me. So even if being your friend is only half of what I really want, can you blame me for not wanting to lose that? I couldn't risk the chance that, if I told you the whole truth, I might go home with nothing.”

“Aren't you ignoring the other possibility?” Michele says, but Emil isn't ignoring it. It's all he's been able to think about for weeks. No, that's not true either. Months. A year. But he couldn't bear to get his hopes up, only to see them dashed, if it isn't true— “That I might feel the same way about you?”

“ _Really?_ ”

It's Emil's natural reaction to leap up from his seat with excitement, but he bangs his knee on the underside of the table and it reminds him that in this particular setting celebrating exuberantly probably wouldn't be appropriate. Not to mention, he doesn't want to overwhelm Michele when he's being so frank. “I mean—wow. Are you actually saying—do you really like me back? You're not just pulling my leg right now?”

“I mean, I'm still working things out on my end. But, yeah.” And there's that killer smile again. “I really think I do. I think I've felt this way for a while.”

“But every time I've tried to ask you out—”

“Can you forgive me for being a selfish idiot?”

Emil was wrong. What kills him isn't the charming smile. It's the look of regret in Michele's eyes when he sobers that goes straight to Emil's heart.

“All those times you and Sara went out, I was angry and jealous and I took it out on you like an asshole. I thought I was jealous of you for spending so much time with my sister—like you were going to steal her away from me or something, and leave me all alone. It took coming on this trip and all the little adventures we've had together to make me realize that I envied her just as much. I hated to think about the two of you together, because you're perfect for her and I don't want to share you, Emil,” Michele says with a fierce inner conviction. “Not with Sara, not with anyone.”

 _And here I used to wonder if you hated me._ Looking back, their friendship has been a comedy of errors, of miscues and misunderstandings, and if Michele has been an idiot, what does that make Emil? “That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.”

Michele winces. “Really? You need to get out more, buddy.”

And Emil has to shake his head, because “Do you even know what Sara and I were doing when we went out together?”

“I assume dancing.”

“Well, aside from that. We were talking about _you_ , Mickey! It was always about you. Your likes, your dislikes—your favorite films, hobbies, how you take your drinks—everything! Hell, I know what brand of vermouth you prefer. I know about that school trip to Pompeii when Sara convinced you you were being followed by a ghost—”

“Hey, I was ten years old and impressionable and that place is creepy no matter who you are,” Michele grumbles. “She didn't need to share that.”

“I think it's adorable. She said you swore to protect her from it—the ghost that _she_ made up. Because that's just the kind of person you are.

“And that's the kind of person I want on my side,” Emil says to those bottomless eyes, finding it easier to admit the more of the truth comes out. “That's me being selfish. Don't get me wrong, Sara is a fine woman, but she's not interested in me and she's not the Crispino I fell for. If anything, I guess you could say I took advantage of her kindness to get closer to you. So that maybe one day I might be able to say that I won your heart the way you won mine.”

Damn. He knows he's said too much when Michele can only stare at him speechlessly.

But he can't take the words back now. Nor would Emil want to. Whatever the outcome of his confession will be, it's out of his hands, and there's something liberating in knowing that. He's said his part, and what happens now—that's up to Michele.

Before he can find out, Michele's phone buzzes on the table beside him with a new message. When he reads it, his chagrin is obvious, and he cranes his neck to look up at one of the windows overlooking the patio. Someone—or perhaps a pair of someones—quickly ducks back away from the window so as not to be seen.

Emil has a pretty good idea what just happened when he sneaks a glance at the phone's face. “GOD just kiss him already!!!” the text says in Italian, underneath Sara's name.

Emil stifles his grin as he sits back, pretending not to have noticed.

“Somehow I get the feeling we're being watched,” Michele says as he shivers and hides behind his menu. “Let's just hurry up and eat so we can go somewhere less exposed.”

“Agreed. I'm starving. And, Mickey?”

“Hm?”

“Does this mean you'll finally let me take you out for that drink at this year's Grand Prix?”

Michele laughs like he did in that masquerade shop in Venice. The sound of it fills Emil with all the warmth he could need. “If it means that much to you, Emil—”

“It does.”

“Then I would like nothing more.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated on this one just a little bit. :P _Via Lattea_ is the Italian name for the Milky Way, so a loose kind of road. . . .


	11. Ponte di Rialto

“Hahhh. . . .” Twirling away from the window, Sara sighs and falls back against the bank of pillows on their bed, happily clutching her phone to herself. “I think it's finally safe to say it: Mission accomplished.”

“Did Mickey text you back?” says Mila while she towels her hair dry.

“Nope! Which can only mean he's having too much fun with Emil to bother.” Otherwise, she's sure, she would have gotten some snarky response telling her to mind her own business.

“Well, it's about freakin' time, those two!” Mila takes the words right from her mouth. “By the way, I made an album of some of our pics from Venice. You should take a look.”

While Mila grabs some of the pommes frites they ordered from room service and idly surfs the television channels for some unobtrusive background noise, Sara checks her feed.

The spread from their dinner in Burano is there, a selfie of Sara and Emil with their tongues blackened from squid-ink pasta, as well as a silhouette of Mila looking out over the water at sunset. Mickey sharing a settee with their hotel's huge tuxedo cat-in-residence, Pietro. Even a pic of a lone pigeon looking imploringly up at Mila, #topivolante. There are slice-of-life shots: gondole lined up along the edge of the canal, goods on display at the historic fish market, a candid shot of Sara walking up the steps of the Rialto Bridge in the relative calm of early morning.

And then a photo of a small gift box, adorned with the elegant script of a shop they had stopped in the same day. “Something special for someone special” the caption reads, though Sara can't remember either of them buying anything there.

“What's this one?” Sara starts to ask as Mila climbs onto the bed and settles by her knees. But she lowers her phone and the box is right there. Mila is holding it out to her.

“Just a little souvenir,” she explains while Sara opens it, “for the girl who has everything.”

But clearly it isn't “just” anything. Inside is a little glass starfish pendant on a silk ribbon, a flower of aqua-blue at its center bursting like a firework, and suddenly it makes sense to Sara why Mila asked her her favorite color that day. She must have gone back for it when Sara wasn't looking, because Sara had no idea this was coming.

Her tears catch her by surprise and she hurries to wipe them away, though it seems in vain. She chides herself under her breath, because as much as she pooh-poohs romantic clichés, she's always been such a sentimentalist when it comes to things like this.

Mila's smile turns quickly to concern and she asks, “It's not too much, is it? Please tell me those aren't angry tears.”

But Sara shakes her head. “Are you kidding?” She knows Mila wasn't out a lot on the gift, and it's not nearly as serious a thing as a ring. Still, the significance of the gesture, to her, is priceless. “If I'm angry at anything,” Sara sniffles, “it's that I had no idea. I wish I could have bought you one to match.”

She can guess by Mila's guilty lopsided grin what's coming. Mila pulls a second starfish pendant from her bathrobe pocket, and it shouldn't come as any surprise to Sara by now that the flower at its center is violet. Even though Sara's pretty sure purple isn't Mila's favorite color. “Now our inner eight-year-olds can be mermaids together.”

Not sure whether she's going to laugh or cry at that, Sara throws her arms around Mila's shoulders because she doesn't trust herself to say anything more.

“Thanks for showing me your country,” Mila says softly into her hair. “This has been the best trip I could ever ask for.”

It sounds like she's fighting back a sadness of her own, knowing tomorrow's their last full day together, and it breaks Sara's heart to hear it. “Damn it, I hate it when things have to end.”

“It's not really an end, though. We'll meet again soon at the Grand Prix. And until then—you know I'm just a video call away.”

“But that's so far from now, and you know it's not the same.” Already it feels like an ocean is opening up between them, just thinking about going home, and it makes Sara hold on even tighter.

As if knowing exactly how Sara feels, Mila draws back just enough that she can say “Come stay with me, Sarochka.”

Sara isn't sure she caught that right, or that it wasn't just her own heart making her hear what she wanted to. “In St. Petersburg?”

“Of course! I can show you the sights, take you to all the best clubs—and we can train together! You can hang with Victor and Georgi and both Yuris, make Mickey  _really_ jealous. Or we can just do our own thing. Anything you want. And you can practice your Russian, so you don't always sound like you're hunting for Moose and Squirrel. . . .”

Sara snorts at Mila's exaggerated impression of her Russian accent. “It's not really that bad.”

“It's that bad.”

“Says she who can't speak Italian without waving her arms like a crazy person.”

“I thought that was part of the language! What, it's not? You sure?”

Sara shakes her head, and Mila beams as bright as ever. Her eyes shine wetly, but nothing falls from them but love. And Sara silently thanks God, not for the first time, that this rock that is Mila Babicheva ever fell into her life.

“Give it some thought. You don't have to decide right away,” Mila says, even though Sara has already made up her mind. “ _The Princess Bride_ is on, and that always picks me up when I'm feeling down. Besides, I've never seen it dubbed into Italian.”

“I've never seen it at all.”

Mila's eyes go wide, like Sara's just said something blasphemous. “Seriously? That's . . . _in_ con _ceivable!_ ”

Obviously it's a reference, but Sara doesn't get it.

“That's okay,” Mila assures her, as she burrows down against Sara and the bank of pillows, locking their arms and legs together. “You will. Trust me, you're gonna love it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ponte di Rialto is the iconic white, stone bridge spanning the Grand Canal of Venice, lined with shops and packed with tourists. I assume Mila and Sara would have hit the shops in Cortina, too, but as a souvenir of Venice, hard to beat the Rialto. The Murano glass starfish pendants with flower-bursts in them are real and you can buy them in a variety of colors.
> 
> Pietro the hotel cat is a nod to Pietro Gambadilegno, or Peg Leg Pete, arch-nemesis of one Topolino, aka Mickey Mouse, so . . . yeah, apologies for the bad joke. XD The "Moose and Squirrel" comment refers to Natasha Fatale, arch-nemesis of Rocky and Bullwinkle and stereotyped Russian villain. _The Princess Bride_ is, of course, what it is, and watching dubbed movies on Italian TV is something everyone should do once.


	12. Freccia nel Cielo

They hike in halflight. The sky is a deep green, growing paler by the minute, but for now they rely on their headlamps to show them the path that leads up and away from the last cable car station.

Which might be a blessing for Michele. He cleaves tight to the steel cable of the _via ferrata_ that takes them safely up to the summit and pays no attention to the drop-off on his other side. “Take your time,” Emil tells him as he follows behind. “The earth is a bit loose here.”

“If I can land a triple Lutz-triple loop, no problem, I think I can keep my footing,” Michele huffs, though Emil is serious. He admires Michele's determination, but cares more that he has a good time, without any scares.

Sara and Mila make it to the top before them, and their hollers and waving aren't helping Michele to take it slow. “You guys coming?” Sara shouts down when they get within earshot. “You don't want to miss it!”

But they make it to the summit with plenty of time to unhook themselves from the cable, put down their gear, and find a comfortable spot to watch the show.

Until this moment, Emil thought nothing could warm him to his soul like the wake-up call he got this morning. Michele pressing a kiss to his temple and ruffling his hair was unexpected, and more electrifying than a quad espresso, even at 0400.

No offense to Mickey, of course, but Nature's been doing wake-up calls for four-and-a-half billion years and pretty much has it down pat.

The first rays of the morning sun crest over the Cristallo Group and bathe them in warm, golden light. The rocks beneath them turn to fuchsia to rose to coral and cadmium-orange, and they watch as the pool of light that engulfs them grows and spreads down the mountainside toward the valley below.

 _Enrosadira,_ the guidebooks call it, a Ladin word meaning “turn pink.” But Mila has her own words for it, breathed in a Russian he can't understand, and Sara just gasps at the splendor of it, and to Emil it is simply the most magical way to start the day that he's ever experienced.

But that kiss was a _very_ close second.

They stare at the glow lightening the Tofana around them to a shimmering gold, each at a loss for words, until at last Emil says: “You know what? I think I've just found my theme for this season: On top of the world.”

There's a hum of agreement from the group. Truly, he thinks, there's no feeling in the world he'd rather capture more than what he's experiencing now: the high, physically and emotionally, of this achievement, and of sharing it with those who are dear to him. How he's going to capture that in his skate, he has no idea, but there's time yet to figure it out.

“I think I might've found mine, too,” says Michele.

“Oh yeah? What's that?”

“Ex arduis perpetuum nomen.”

“Nice,” Emil says as pride floods his chest. He's pretty sure the ladies won't get the full significance of that phrase to him and Michele, even if they're familiar with the Latin; but Emil doesn't really want to share, nor would it be his place. Thinking back to their conversation on a different mountain ledge, he can't think of a better theme for Michele to pursue. “What about you two?” he says over his shoulder.

“Enchantment under the sea!” Mila blurts out.

“No way!” Sara says. “ _I_ was thinking of doing enchantment under the sea!”

“Well, we can't _both_ have the same theme. People might think we're a couple or something.”

Mila says it like the idea would be scandalous, but there's sarcasm in her voice too. And when Sara says, “That wouldn't be so bad, now, would it?” and loops her arm in Mila's and leans in for a kiss, Emil is fit to bursting with happiness for the two of them.

Michele, however, happens to turn around just as Mila and Sara's lips part and goes a bit pink himself, muttering something about she-hyenas and the two of them saving it for their room.

“Why, Mickey,” says Mila, “I thought you'd be happy Sara's found someone who cares about her as much as you do.”

“I am happy for her!” he swears in a tone that sounds anything but. “I just don't wanna see her doing _that_ —with anyone!”

“You did know they were dating, right?” says Emil.

“Of course I knew. I had to figure it out for myself, though. _She_ ,” at which he glares at Sara, “doesn't tell me anything.”

Says the she in question, “That's because any time I even mention my love life—”

But at that point Michele has already clapped his hands over his ears and pretends not to hear, thereby making Sara's point for her.

Still, she beams at her silly brother when she tells him, “Well, if you _are_ happy for me, then I guess you won't mind me spending a few weeks with Mila in Russia next month. The two of you are _not_ invited, by the way.”

Michele gapes, and Emil can't be sure if his hurt is feigned. Maybe he and Sara have never been separated by such a distance before. Or for so long. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Come to Prague!” The solution springs to Emil in an instant, and he couldn't contain it even if he wanted to—which, of course, he doesn't. “I'll show you around my country! You'll love it, everyone's super nice and there are some amazing castles to explore—Or I could come and keep you company in Naples while Sara's away! I mean, that is, if you're okay with introducing me to the rest of your family. You can take me out for real Neapolitan pizza, like you're always talking about—ooh, and I've always wanted to visit Pompeii! Do they let you climb Vesuvius? Of course, we don't _have_ to go to Italy or Czech Republic—”

“Okay, okay,” Michele chuckles as he gestures for Emil to slow down. “We'll work something out. I promise.”

And then it's Sara's turn to be happily surprised. She grins so wide it looks like it hurts, as if she never thought she would hear her brother laugh for anyone but her. “Wait,” she says, looking between the two of them, “so does this mean . . .

“Never mind,” she decides after a second's thought, however. “I don't want to jinx it.”

* * *

They take the slow way down to 2500 meters, and stop for an early lunch at the restaurant and overlook there.

“So, Mickey,” Sara teases, “what's the final verdict? Aren't you glad you let me drag you along with us?”

And he sits up straighter in his seat and says, “I didn't have much of a choice, did I? I couldn't leave Emil alone with the two of you. It wouldn't be right.”

He tries to hide his smile when he looks over at Emil and fails utterly, the result being lopsided and so endearing that it's all Emil can do not to hug him then and there and embarrass him even further.

And here Emil thought he was going to have a hard time saying good-bye. This trip may be coming to an end, but something else is just beginning, and he can't wait to see where it goes next.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Freccia nel Cielo_ , or "arrow in the sky," is the cable car system that takes you to near the top of Tofana di Mezzo in the Tofane Group of the Dolomiti d'Ampezzo. A _via ferrata_ , or "iron way," which is a path marked with iron rods and cables for holding or hooking oneself on to, leads from the terminus to the summit, so that even a casual hiker can climb fairly easily and safely to the top. There is indeed a restaurant/overlook at the cable car's second stop, about 2500 meters up. Ladin is a language similar to Italian spoken in the Italian Alps, and there are plenty of examples of _enrosadira_ , also known as "alpenglow," posted online.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and stuck with me through this fic. It's been lots of fun to share this trip with you all, and your support just proves why YOI has one of the best fandoms today. Hope to see you around!


End file.
